


Arya of the North

by ASimpleCup



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Badass Arya, Exile, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-02-04 14:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18606466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASimpleCup/pseuds/ASimpleCup
Summary: The Starks are on their way to Kings Landing, but a confrontation between Arya and Prince Joffrey has dire consequences. On the run and betrayed by the ones she loves, Arya must make her own way through an unforgiving world. But her disappearance has a greater effect on the world around her than is first apparent, and the destinies of many are thrown out of balance because of it.Only one solid truth remains certain: Winter is Coming.





	1. Arya I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [House Danarya](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=House+Danarya).



> Wow, I never thought I'd actually see the day where this get's started! Haha
> 
> Strap in folks! You're in for a ride!

_It wasn’t fair_ , Arya thought with no small amount of resentment. _None of it was fair_. All she had wanted to do was spend an afternoon along the river with Mycah, hunting for rubies and reenacting the Battle of the Trident. Sansa could eat her lemon cakes with the sour Queen all she liked, but Arya was going to have fun. Her sister hadn’t gone in the wheelhouse like she’d planned, though. No, instead she’d gone _riding_ with the Prince.

Arya let out a snort from where she lay, sprawled across the floor in a small room at the inn where they’d been keeping her. She assumed the room was at one point meant for additional food storage, but two stops from the King on his way to and from Winterfell had left the stores looking rather bleak. What little remained of the food looked to be nothing but a few bad apples, and the floor was sticky from where some had been crushed and mixed with the dirt that stained the floor. Her own clothes were muddied from hiding in the woods all day, and idly she picked at a barb that still clung to the bottom of her fraying hair, wondering how Sansa always managed to look so clean traveling with company so foul.

She seemed to recall Sansa declaring riding to be a dirty, stinky affair only hours before, yet there she’d been, looking beautiful with all the grace of a Tully, smiling from ear to ear as she rode next to the Prince – a little shit, and heir to the Seven Kingdoms. In a way, Arya supposed Prince Joffrey could be considered handsome, if only he didn’t strut like a rooster whenever he got particularly full of himself. It’s just that she had yet to see him go anywhere without doing it, and eventually she resigned herself to the fact that her future King must suffer from some sort of affliction in his legs. They simply didn’t seem capable of managing the weight of his head.

A fact made clearly evident when he’d crumpled like a leaf after she hit him over the back of the head with her stick for hurting Mycah. She hadn’t meant to injure him, not really. He hadn’t seemed weak back in Winterfell, but then again, he’d been heavily padded when sparring with Robb. Perhaps he really _did_ suffer from an affliction. Still, down he’d gone, and there’d been a brief moment of satisfaction at having downed him so easily. There was blood on his neck, and a rich color to match that painted her stick as a more menacing weapon that what it actually was.

From her position on the dirty floor, Arya raised her hands in front of her face, and her eyes picked out the brown stains of Joffrey’s blood that had long since mixed with the mud that caked her skin. It hadn’t always been brown. She still remembered the violent, red color that had sprung from the Prince’s body. It made her wonder whether the rubies from the story of Prince Rhaegar’s defeat had been from his armor, or from what lay beneath it.

It hadn’t seemed to keep the prince off his feet for long though. Joffrey had been up and swinging his flashy sword before she’d even had a chance to apologize. There’d been a fury in his eyes, a madness she hadn’t noticed before. Arya shivered at the thought of where she’d be if Nymeria hadn’t latched on to his arm. She’d had to set the direwolf loose, of course. The Queen wasn’t known for her benevolence, especially when it came to her children. And though Arya knew that, it pained her deeply to think of Nymeria alone, so far away from home. She hoped she’d be alright.

As it was though, everyone in the King’s Party must have heard what had happened by now, and she was unsure why her father had not come for her right away. She had tried to ask the guard who had brought her here where her father was, but the Lannister man didn’t deign her with a response. Now however, with the moon set high in the night sky, there was movement outside her door, and an exchange of muffle words as a new person took the place of the first one.

There was a lull then, that had Arya sitting up from the floor, with her heart pounding in her ears. When they’d first brought her here, she had desperately wanted to see her father, but now she wasn’t sure she could handle seeing the disappointment on his face.

A knock came then, and the thumping in her chest echoed its message. The tension left her though, when she recognized the voice of the Stark’s captain of the guard.

“It’s Jory, my Lady,” he announced. “I’ve come to take you to your father.”

His voice was still the friendly tone he’d always shared with her, but there was a nervousness to it all that had her remaining on edge.

“I’m ready,” Arya said the words with a shaky exhale as she stood on wobbly legs. “I’m ready to go.”

Jory opened the door, and paused a moment to take her in. With a shake of his head he frowned. Arya knew she was a sore site, and it brought a little more shame than usual to think she had upset the nice man.

“Oh, this won’t do,” he muttered, finally moving into the room. “Did they not give you anything to wash yourself?”

Arya shook her head once, willing her embarrassment away. “No, but I don’t care!” The words came out forced. “They haven’t said a word to me about Father. They can deal with a bit of mud!”

Jory looked at her for a moment, probably recognizing that not all that stained her skin was dirt, and debating the right course of action. In the end he sighed, and Arya knew she’d reached an agreement when he gave her a small smile. “Alright, little lady. Let’s take you to your father. Lord Stark’s been out looking for you for hours, he’s only just now returned.”

Arya’s face scrunched up at the thought, as they moved down the hall towards the stairs. “I’ve been here for ages, though. The sun was still up when I was brought in here.”

Her escort looked upset at the news, but didn’t give a response. It was only when they’d reached the door to the common hall that they stopped. Arya could hear the raised voices of an argument raging on inside. Her father’s voice was one of the loudest.

“Now I need you to listen to me, my Lady,” Jory spoke with a quiet hush that drew her attention, bending down to keep her eyes level with his. “The Queen is mightily upset with you. I’m not sure what happened between you and the Prince, but you need to remain calm when you tell your part. Can you do that for me?”

Arya’s face flushed with anger at the thought of Joffrey, but she nodded regardless. Now was not the time for fighting. Fighting got her in this mess. She wouldn’t disgrace herself more than she had already.

She guessed Jory saw what he was looking for in her set face, because he gave another small smile of reassurance before standing up and entering the room. The arguing voices gained both clarity and volume as she entered, and she realized with a start that her father was in an argument with the King.

The two men had yet to notice the new arrivals, but Arya felt the Queen’s eyes on her immediately. The Prince stood by her side, with a cloth tied to his neck, and his arm in a sling. She could see the red stains on both. His eyes held open hostility, but the Queens were colder, and filled with an odd sense of smugness that had Arya wishing for once that she was properly clean.

“You’re Grace, this is madness!” The desperation in her father’s voice startled her, and she broke contact with Cersei to look towards him. “She’s just a little girl!”

“She doesn’t look like a little girl. She looks like a wild little beast.” The words were spoken by the Queen from where she sat, and both Robert and her father’s gaze looked to where her emerald green eyes hadn’t moved from since Arya had arrived in the hall.

Her father sagged in relief, and Arya for a moment forgot the tension in the room as she ran towards his open arms, stammering an apology into his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, and found that she meant it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Her father held her tightly, and she basked in that silent comfort just as much as she did with the words he said. “It’s alright, little one. You’re alright.”

After a pause, they broke apart, and he finally caught notice of the state of her dress. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, turning to face the Queen outright. “These stains are hours dry, why wasn’t she brought to me at once?”

Cersei scoffed. “And have you wash away her savagery? I think not.”

King Robert slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “Quiet, woman! Damnit Ned, I can’t just ignore the fact that your daughter shed the blood of the Crown Prince. If the girl had hit any harder, my welp of a son wouldn’t be shriveling in the corner like some frightened mare, he’d be in a bed.”

Joffrey for his part, paled under his father’s harsh criticism but said nothing. Though Arya could feel his eyes burning into her side as she stood before the King.

“Now then,” Robert mused aloud, focusing his attention on her. “What to do with you? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Arya tried to take an even breath, but it was difficult with so many pairs of eyes dissecting her every motion. “I-it was an accident your Grace! I only meant to get him to stop,” quickly she added “He was hurting Mycah!”

The Queen sneered from beside her husband. “Joffrey told us what happened. You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him.”

The lie had her angry. “That’s not what happened!” she declared loudly.

“Yes, it is!” Prince Joffrey yelled back, finally finding his voice. “They attacked me!”

Arya might have attacked him then too, but her father had placed a hand on her shoulder like he knew what she was thinking. “It wasn’t like that at all!” she insisted. “Joffrey pulled his sword out on Mycah! I was the only one who hit him. He was hurting him!”

“And where is this butcher’s boy, then?” Cersei asked, idly searching the room for a boy she knew wasn’t there. “There’s been no sign of him. He ran away, just like you. Why would he run if he wasn’t guilty?”

The question made her pause. “I don’t know,” she whispered. Arya was beginning to panic. The King and her father were both staring at her with masked expressions, and she could tell those around her were starting to look at her with suspicion. She feared to guess what they were thinking. “I don’t know.”

Cersei leaned back in her chair; her lips pressed in a tight line that Arya thought to be holding back a smile. Her father’s oldest friend sighed from where he sat, a look of unease on his red face as he rubbed his brow.

“Your Grace, please—” her father began.

“What of your other daughter, Ned?” King Robert asked, stopping his friend. His tone had lost much of its vigor of the last hour. He sounded more resigned. “Where is she?”

Her father only paused a moment before answering. “In bed, asleep.”

Cersei smiled from her seat. “She’s not. Sansa, come here, darling.”

Arya’s head snapped to the door behind her, where her sister stood. Her normally fair skin had taken a more ashen appearance, and Arya felt a brief surge of resentment towards her. She wasn’t the one being accused of assaulting a Prince. But still, she had hope. Arya was quick to note that her sister never made eye contact with her on the way, but she passed it off to the tenseness of the situation. She supposed Sansa could be nervous; She wasn’t used to being in such situations, ever the perfect southern lady like their mother.

When she had finally reached her place in front of the King, Arya felt a bit of the stiffness leave her shoulders; It would be over soon. She glanced up at her father, hoping to find the same reassurance she felt on his face as well, but he wasn’t looking at her. He had his eyes on Sansa, and his brow was furrowed.

“Now, child,” the King began, drawing Arya’s attention back to her sister. “Tell me what happened, and tell it true. It’s a great crime to lie to a King.”

Briefly, Arya thought Sansa hadn’t heard the King’s command, but she finally raised her head and looked the younger girl in the eye. Arya initially gave her sister a grateful smile, but her sister’s face was not one of confidence, and she quickly averted her eyes back to the king. Arya felt her blood freeze in her veins, the hair on her neck standing on end.

_What was she doing?_

“I don’t know,” Sansa stammered. “I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast, I didn’t see.”

Arya took an involuntary step back as the words slammed into her like a punch to the gut. The words couldn’t have been real, it wasn’t possible. Arya waited briefly to see if Sansa would break out in laughter. It had to have been a joke. She would have tolerated being the butt of a thousand of her sister and Jeyne Poole’s insults if it meant this one was one of them. But her sister still refused to look her in the eye, timidly standing there with her head to the ground. Arya’s eyes blurred with tears at the sting of the betrayal. But the sadness was burned away by the smug look on the Queen’s face, a look that told her exactly who had convinced her sister to turn her back on her family. To turn her back on _her_.

“Liar! she shrieked, tackling her sister to the ground. “Liar, liar, liar!” Each declaration was followed by a fist, as Arya tried to make her sister feel the same pain in her chest that the older girl had just delivered herself.

Multiple people yelled her name, and she was aware that there were arms pulling her off of the wretched thing sobbing on the ground below her, but she didn’t care. Though her arms were locked in the vices of someone behind her – her father, no doubt – Arya continued to kick her legs at her betrayer, and landed one solid hit to the underside of the girls chin before she was pulled too far away. “Liar, liar, liar!” she screamed again.

“Stop! Arya!” her father bellowed, finally twisting her to face away from the older girl as Jory went to help her up from off the ground. Even still, she continued to struggle out of her father’s iron grip.

“She’s as wild as that animal of hers. She must be punished.” Queen Cersei’s words were poison, Arya knew. But the strength behind them was only made stronger paired with the sounds of crying that followed.

“Enough!” the King bellowed, before turning to one of his guards. “You, fetch a maester, see to the girls wounds. Quickly now, go!” The older girl still sobbed, desperately trying to leave the hall, with a hand covering her mouth where blood dripped from her pretty face.

 _Less pretty now_ , Arya thought. She hoped it scarred.

The echo of the hall’s door closing made Arya cease her struggles. As the sorrowed tones grew fainter, the quiet in the room only grew more pronounced. Cersei’s demand was still on the minds of everyone remaining in the hall. Jory’s warning to behave seemed like a distant memory now, but Arya couldn’t muster the will to care. _What would have been the point?_  The thought came unbidden. _Sansa lied anyway._

Her father had remained silent through it all, though his grip had not relaxed. Arya noticed now that he hadn’t defended her against the Queen’s latest claim, and felt a sinking feeling in her stomach that it was because he agreed.

“Gods be damned,” Robert groaned. Her father took the time to say his piece.

“Your Grace, let me send Arya home. We can keep her in the North, she won’t be a trouble to you or yours again.”

The Queen wouldn’t let it go. “And let her leave unpunished? My son will bare these scars for the rest of his life, to say nothing of the damage she’s just done to your own daughter. No. I demand she be punished appropriately, and I want her beast put down.”

Though Arya knew Nymeria was out of harms way, the statement still caused her stomach to turn. This vile woman was truly a heartless Queen. Arya despised her more for that than she ever had anyone in her entire life.

Robert groaned again. “I forgot the damned wolf.”

“We found no trace of the direwolf, your Grace,” a soldier said.

The King got up from his chair, waving off the soldier. “So be it.”

“We have another wolf.”

Everyone stopped.

 _They couldn’t mean Lady, could they?_ Arya thought to herself. It appeared that that had been the thought of her father and King Robert as well, but Cersei was still looking at her. There was a gleam in her eye, and Arya knew she was seeing the same madness that had taken her son earlier that day.

“You can’t mean it,” her father whispered. It sounded like the wind had been knocked out of him. Even still, Arya believed they were talking about the other direwolf.

“She doesn’t mean Lady, does she?” Arya asked aloud. No one responded. Her father was still staring at the King, his face grim, but there was a sad desperation in those grey eyes so very much like her own that terrified Arya. She tried again to voice her opinion, but this time she directed her words to the Queen herself, who still stared at her in an unsettling manner. “Lady wasn’t there! You leave her alone!”

The King remained silent through it all though, his expression pained. Her lord father tried once more, demanding a verbal answer to the question Arya still wasn’t sure had been asked. “Is this your command… your Grace?”

The Stag King sighed, long and suffering, before turning to his wife. His blue eyes were filled with such contempt that for an instant, Arya was shocked, but Cersei stood through it with a lazy smile on her face. Whatever had happened between the two royals in that silent battle of wills apparently ended with the Queen as the victor, as the king muttered his final words before exiting the hall.

“So be it.”

Her father said nothing, but there was a prayer at his lips when he bowed his head. The fight seemed to have gone out of him all at once, and Arya thought he’d never looked so old as he did in that very moment.

It clicked to Arya then, that it hadn’t been Lady at all that Cersei had demanded put to the sword. It had been _her_. Silently, she allowed herself to be dragged away from where she had been standing, back to the room with the sticky floor and a sack of bad apples. Her mind was too numb from what had transpired to fight back like she had so fiercely done before. The will had simply abandoned her. Arya’s grey eyes never once wavered from the image of her father who stared back at her. His eyes were on her own as if already committing her face to memory, but he did nothing to stop the ones taking her. She waited for him to demand her release, or to do something to stop the men from locking her away. But he did nothing, and she watched him until he too turned his back on her, and left the room.

And only then, did Cersei allow herself to truly smile. A smile so sweet and full of honey, it would haunt her until the day she died.

Until _tomorrow._


	2. Eddard I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead!

The sound of the door closing behind him didn’t carry the type of resonating finality that Ned had come to expect when dealing with dire circumstances regarding his family. Instead, it sounded like a door to an inn, with the gravity of the situation cleverly hidden on the other side. That was for the best, he thought, when he couldn’t bare to see the shocked look of betrayal on his daughter’s face for a single second more. Her grey eyes that reminded him so much of his sister seemed to sear themselves in his mind, forcing him to confront all of his life’s failures. “ _Promise me Ned_ ,” Those grey eyes had said. And damn him to his wife’s seven hells if he didn’t know how to respond, to make another promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Arya had always been a wild child. Ned thought the Old Gods had sought to bless him with Lyanna reborn after the world had so cruelly taken her from him so early into her life. And she had been the only child of his own that had the look of the North in her. He’d once told her she had wolf’s blood, and he had seen her smile more that day than he had ever been witness to before. Now that smile was gone, and in its place his little wolf’s maw was red with the blood of the Stag.

Needing something to do, anything to take his mind off the situation if only for a brief moment, Ned strode purposefully towards the door to the outside. A breeze met his face upon leaving the building, but it wasn’t the crisp reminder of the North that he wanted. This far south, you couldn’t escape the dreadful heat of a decade long summer even in the dead of night. The idea of the sun rising in only a few more hours made Ned want to sag in despair, but he refrained. He was Hand of the King, it wouldn’t due for him to show weakness, now especially.

Ned stepped out into the street, towards the stables. In his haste to find out what was going on with his daughter he had left his horse still saddled in its stall. It wasn’t often Eddard Stark found himself as shaken as he was earlier, but he supposed no one would judge him too harshly for his reaction. And if they did, Ned thought, he’d deal with it as it came. Until then he’d walk straight and steady, and do one thing at a time. He’d start by seeing to his horse.

Another gust of wind hit him as he moved to where his horse was still tied up. The heat from its breath an unwelcomed mixture of horseshit and the heaviness of a rain that hadn’t yet come to pass. Ned thought not for the first time, as he set about unstrapping his gear from the grey palfrey he’d ridden, that he should have stayed back in Winterfell. Wolves didn’t belong south of the Neck; nothing good ever happened to them when called to Kings Landing. Even the horses seemed to be restless. They may have been picked because they could handle the distance, but these steeds were just as much of the North as the men who rode them.

A huff from behind had Ned breaking out of his thoughts, and he turned to see which of the horses had acted out, and found a familiar looking pony glaring at him with baleful brown eyes. Ned let out a breath as he remembered when the defiant creature had first come before him. He was a rude thing, more likely to spit at you then let you feed him. Nobody had bothered to try and get near enough to ride him, and Winterfell’s Stablemaster had expressed a bit of sadness at the probability of putting down the beast. Northerners didn’t typically name their horses, as it was considered something more akin to vanity than a point of familial bonding, and the conditions in the North were oft hard on the animals enough that naming them only really brought more heartache than it was worth. This pony however, was an exception amidst the other northern steeds. He was Arya’s, and Ned remembered when she had given her brothers a wicked smile when she’d come riding out of Winterfell’s stable him for the first time a year prior.

 _“I am his and he is mine,”_ she had said. “ _From this day until the end of my days."_   Her brothers had laughed in glee while Sansa and their mother had looked properly affronted. Husband, she’d called him. And it was just as well, Ned thought. She was the only one who could handle him without getting bit. Arya never did tell them how she had managed to tame the creature. She only ever smiled mischievously, and said she simply had a special connection that anyone would have with their husband. Catelyn had a fit whenever she heard the response, and eventually people had simply stopped asking. Now those brown eyes stared at him accusingly, and while he knew the animal was just a hateful creature, the head of House Stark couldn’t help but feel that maybe there really was a connection to the horse’s rider. He felt condemned under its gaze.

Ned turned back to what he was doing, but the mind-numbing comfort that he had wanted evaded him, despite all his efforts to simply forget, just for a while. And that thought shamed him more than anything else. Gods, he is standing in a stable in the dark while one of his daughters is sitting in a locked room alone, and the other is….

Ned sighed. In all the chaos, he had let thoughts of Sansa slip past him. His sweet southern bird. She truly was her mother’s daughter. She had evaded the harshness that came with living in the North all her life and now, just as she’s begun to truly shine under a southern sun, she’s found the North unwilling to let her forget it. He’d seen the hatred in Arya’s eyes when she realized Sansa hadn’t protected her. Those same eyes that had looked to him when Sansa hadn’t done so. Ned furrowed his brow.

 _Why_ hadn’t Sansa done so? Arya was many things. Wild, fierce, a wolf. But like a wolf, she was loyal to the pack. Honest with her thoughts, often times at the expense of her own self-interest. She may keep secrets, but if the truth was necessary, and there had been no doubt in his mind that she knew this latest ordeal had demanded truth, then she’d give it. So why had her sister not defended her? Sansa had been there, she’d seen what had happened, no matter what she claimed. Something wasn’t right.

Giving one last look to Husband, who only hissed at him with an aggressive flick of his tail, Ned walked out of the stable and began to make his way towards where Sansa had been put up in one of the Inn’s staff houses. The road wasn’t as cluttered with people as it had been when he’d first walked out. He supposed everyone had gone back to their respective abodes now that the spectacle at the inn was over. Only the guardsmen were truly up, going about their duties with a stodgy determination that only ever came with being a soldier placed on guard duty. He nodded to a few as he walked past them, gaining a muttered “milord” and “Lord Hand” that varied in genuine respect depending on which house the guards belonged to. He didn’t pay it any mind. They weren’t in his way, and his hatred for the golden lions of the west was well known. There was a more important matter at hand anyway, let them continue their duty. The wind had died down and the sky rumbled again with a reminder of what would come, he thought with passing amusement. That would be punishment enough.

There was still a candle lit in the window of the cottage Sansa had been brought to, though the door was closed and the blinds were drawn. There were hushed murmurs and pained gasps on the other side, but before Ned made a move to open the door, the sound of trotting hooves alerted him to a rider coming in from the road North. The black stallion was just as mean looking as the man riding it, and Ned knew immediately that it was Sandor Clegane coming back from the search party. He’d been thankfully missing from the events at the Inn, but he didn’t appear at all upset about his absence. The man brought his horse to a stop a few feet from the door, and gave the Hand of the King a look that might have passed for pity, if there had been any room for it on a face chiseled by hate and anger.

Ned’s eyes fell to the sack tied to the back of the Hounds horse, and his eyes flashed in rage when he realized it wasn’t a sack at all. It was Mycah, the butcher’s boy. He was nearly cleaved in two.

“The boy was wanted for questioning, and you rode him down?” he asked icily.

The hound sneered at him from where he sat on his horse, and whatever other emotion he may shown slipped behind the familiar mask of indifference and hate that the man wore like a second skin. “Aye, he ran. Not very fast.”

“I had wondered whether the act of brutally murdering children was a trait only your brother claimed, or if it was a sickness that ran in the family,” Ned pondered aloud, glaring up at the Hound with an level of contempt he hadn’t felt since he saw a young Jaime Lannister smirking down at him from a throne that didn’t belong to him. “Now I have my answer.”

Ned didn’t shout at the man, didn’t move beyond gripping the hilt of his sword with knuckles white as snow. He had so many few allies on this trip south, and his position as Hand of the King so very new. It wouldn’t do to play the part of raving beast, especially so soon after his daughter played the part so well. As it was, his words were carried with a hard iron weight that made no attempt to hide the rage that rolled off of him in waves.  
  
The Hound was much less subtle, sneering one last time at him before spitting down at the ground as he turned his horse away towards the stables. The man’s guttural voice carried over has he left, and Ned was quick to notice the few guards around that had heard his response.

“Say what you need to keep your _honor_ , Stark. I’ve remained loyal to House Lannister. Can that wolf-bitch of yours say the same?”

Sandor Clegane took his leave then, and Ned watched him make his way brusquely to an empty patch of grass further along the road, away from where others had pitched their steeds.

 _Damn that man,_ Ned thought. _Damn him and all the lions he serves._

The sound of thunder, closer than before, seemed to rumble in agreement.

But the Hounds words kept running through his head, because damnit if there wasn’t something _wrong_ going on with all this. He’d had the thought first when he’d seen his daughter brought to him earlier in the day, when she’d been covered in dried mud from the Ruby and dried blood from the prince. He’d been told she’d been found hours prior, and yet they’d kept her in a locked room without any means of cleaning her. Cersei had said she wanted them to see her for the beast that she was. Ned was inclined to believe she wanted Arya to look _guilty._

And now the butcher’s boy was dead by Clegane hands.

_I’ve remained loyal to House Lannister._

The words wouldn’t leave him, and they brought him back to King’s Landing seventeen years ago. They brought him back to a time when a different Clegane had slaughtered the lives of innocent children under the orders of a different Lannister. The Targaryen babes’ bodies had haunted Ned ever since, and it seemed their ghosts would not be leaving him any time soon.

Ned shuddered a breath as the memory washed over him. He was going to get to the bottom of this, but he needed to talk to Sansa about it before making any final decisions. He turned again to the door, and spent a moment to collect himself before he finally made his way into the building.

There wasn’t much in terms of décor. His theory of the place being owned by one of the local inn works seemed to be correct. Sansa was sat at a rather plain table near a kitchen, probably due to the better lighting involved more than anything else, and a maester was hunched over her, gently wiping away what remained of the blood and tears that had stained her alabaster skin. His daughter’s eyes found his only briefly before she tensed and looked away, biting a lip that still trembled with unshared anguish.

It must have drawn the maester’s attention though, because the man suddenly stood straight and turned to face the door, his maester’s links gently tingling along. The mans face was a dour one, with loose skin hanging beneath a mouth that seemed to be set in a permanent frown. His mouth had been opened to speak, and Ned thought it was likely to be something harsh, but when the old mans eyes saw who had entered, his had closed his mouth with a snap, but his scowl only seemed to intensify.

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d meet you, Lord Stark,” the maester said. “I imagine the days recent events have weighed heavily on you.”

The man’s tone could have fooled someone into thinking he had been asking about the weather, but Ned was a father before anything else. He knew criticism when he saw it, and he grit his teeth knowing the man was right to judge him.

“Aye. But I don’t find myself so heavy of burden as to not see to my daughter’s health. I thank you aiding her, maester…?”

The man huffed as he turned to gather his things. His brow was more pronounced as he did so, but he was still gentle with his actions. Ned was thankful for it, as Sansa didn’t seem to be any wiser as to the tension in the room.

“Maester Barran, my Lord,” he replied after a moment. “And it was no trouble. Head wounds bleed more severely than others, and the cut will scar I’m afraid. But the more serious injuries were to Lady Sansa’s stomach,”

Ned sucked in a breath, his ire forgotten. “How bad is it?”

Maester Barran fumbled through his bag for a moment, but his face was still furrowed in concentration. “My belief is that it is nothing more than a sprain,” he said, and Ned let his breath go with a bit of relief. She’d be fine, he thought. Maester Barran’s face seemed softer for a moment as he took in the relieved lords face, but soon it went back to its normal state.

Finally, he fished out two vials he’d apparently been looking for, and handed them to Ned with a stern glare, so as to make sure he had the lord’s attention. “Milk of the Poppy, should the bruising bare her too much pain. I suggest she not ride any time soon, perhaps lay her in one of the wagons. The other is Essence of Night Shade. A few drops may help someone sleep better.”

The maester had stated it like it was meant for his injured daughter, but the look in his eyes, one filled with a pity he hadn’t shown previously, told Ned that the Nightshade was meant for him. It was a kind gesture, but he wouldn’t forgive himself if he got a decent night’s sleep after everything that happened. After everything had had yet to happen. Still, Ned took what was given to him without complaint. Sansa may have use for them, even if he didn’t.  

The Maester said nothing else as he went about his business. It was only a moment before the cottage door closed with a parting farewell from the elderly man before the two Starks were finally alone, neither quite knowing what to say. Sansa had taken to staring at her hands, which her father noticed were a bit bruised from where she had tried to catch herself on the floor earlier. Ned took the time to let his gaze travel the length of her arms and knees. Sansa had always been the perfect picture of what a lady represented. Never a hair out of place, nor a stain in sight. Now though, her dress was frayed along the cuffs of her arms, and there was a rip going down the side of her leg. Her hair was miraculously still intact, apart from where her hands were currently wringing the end of her braid. His daughter still refused to look at him, and her knuckles, white with tension, broke his heart.

Slowly, Ned took a step toward her, and crouched down to match his eyes to hers. When she didn’t turn her gaze towards his, he reached to cup her head in his hand, a sob breaking out of her before she could stop it, and she reluctantly turned to face him. Ned eyed the cut on her chin with more than a little sadness. It stretched from just under the right side of her chin and reached the corner of her lip, a wicked little curl that have her a look like she was halfway between a frown and a smile. The maester had been correct with his assessment, it would leave a scar Her eyes were red from crying, but he wasn’t sure if the ones that were building now were from the pain or from a loss of innocence, but he hoped she knew that whatever else, he would always find his daughter beautiful.

“How are you?” he asked, after a time. Ned winced at how wrong the question felt.

“Maester Barran tells me the pain will go away soon,” Sansa whispered, her eyes looking back down to her hands. “I’m not so sure.”

Despair clutched at Ned with a vice grip, and he gently pressed a kiss to her crown, in part to give her comfort, but also to stop her from seeing him fight back tears.

“My sweet girl, I’m so sorry. It seems the south truly doesn’t agree with wolves all that well.”

He’d meant the comment to make her smile, if only a little. But it only made her face pinch up with anger. “It was a _wolf_ that didn’t agree with me father, not the southern air. And now I’ll be lucky if the Prince even looks my way again!” Her voice was rising in pitch, and Ned knew the tense silence that had covered the room was gone. “That little freak made me _hideous!”_

A war of emotions surged through him at the words, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of disappointment.

“Enough of that, Sansa; I won’t have you talking about Arya like that.”

Sansa snapped her head to look at him, and he knew then that her mother’s ire had absolutely passed on to her daughter. “You’re _defending_ her? Again?! She’s wild!”

“She’s your sister!” he replied coolly, the lines in his face hardened into what his children had often called his “Lord’s face”.

Sansa was having none of it though. “It isn’t fair! You’ve always taken her side, on everything!”

“Aye, I’ve taken her side on more than one occasion,” he replied abruptly, deciding to stand now so that his daughter would say that this was not going to be one of their normal arguments about her sister. “And you better pray to the Old Gods _and_ the New that I remain on her side, or you won’t have a sister anymore to argue with!”

His voice had raised without his knowing, but it had the desired effect because Sansa’s face turned sheet white, all her fury gone in an instant.

“W-what? But she-! But the Queen- oh gods!” Sansa’s eyes were wide with horror, and she was beginning to lose herself in a fit of weeping.

Ned’s concern for his eldest daughter was matched only by his suspicions on what Sansa had been trying to say. “What about the Queen?” he asked gently, trying to get her to calm down. His daughter leaned towards his waist, clinging on to his legs like she used to do after being woken from a nightmare.

“The Queen, she- she said it was for the best if I didn’t take a s-side. She told me she only wanted the wolf, and I thought- I thought… gods _Arya!”_

Ned held his daughter for a moment, whispering that it was going to be okay, that she shouldn’t blame herself. But on the inside, his blood boiled, and he felt the familiar desire to shed the blood of whatever creature dared to harm his pack. Cersei had planned it all, he knew. Whether out of some attempt to gain a firmer grip on the North out of a supposed debt, or simply to spite those who had dared harm her precious boy, he couldn’t say. Lannisters seemed to be making a habit out of weakening other families connected to the King, if Lysa Arryn’s letter held any merit. He was beginning to feel inclined that it did.

“I need to go see the King about releasing your sister, Sansa. It shouldn’t be too long. But Arya won’t be coming with us to King’s Landing after this,” Ned told her. “I hope you can find it in you to make peace. You’ve done her an injustice today, daughter.

Sansa nodded into his chest, before letting go of him and trying in vain to wipe the tears away that were still falling. Ned gave her a small smile, kissing her on the head again before heading back out into the outside. Sansa bared him goodnight with a gentle voice, and he responded in kind before the door closed behind him. The candle in the window remained lit for only a few moments before that too went out.

The rain had begun to fall in earnest since he’d been inside the cottage, and Ned sighed as he let the rain wash over him, trying to figure out what exactly his next move would be. He knew he needed to speak to Robert about her Grace’s machinations, but he wasn’t willing to let faith in his friend stop him from being more prepared this time around. With that in mind, Ned began walking towards where the Stark Banners were raised, marking his traveling party’s claimed plot of earth to settle for the night. The grey tents that dotted the left-hand side of the road were situated in a circle around a communal fire that had blessedly been put out some hours ago, but there were still a few men who sat around it’s blackened bones, talking with grim faces. They rose when they say him, but his eyes were only for Jory, who had been standing across the way, staring over at the small outer storehouse connected to the inn that Ned knew was where his daughter was being held. The man had a small frown on his face, and he didn’t notice at first when his Liege Lord stood beside him.

“Something wrong, Jory?”

The man snorted. “There usually is, where Lady Arya is concerned. But no, I only thought I had heard something. I don’t see anything amiss though, I’m guessing it was simply the skies telling me how much they wanted to piss on southern hospitality.”

Ned felt a surge of affection towards the man, who had always served his house with a loyalty that simply couldn’t be bought. Jory had always done right by House Stark, and he was exactly the man Ned wanted for this job.

“I guess it will make you happy then, to know you are going home,” he replied.

Jory looked at him with confusion, but didn’t refute the claim. “How many will be going along on this venture, my Lord?”

Ned faced him fully then, face closer than normal in order to be heard over the rain. “Just two,” he murmured, making sure Jory understood. “At dawn.”

Realization dawned on the Captain of his Guard, and his face settled into a more northern look of grim determination, a far-cry from his typical open features. “I’ll see to the horses then.”

Ned nodded once, before taking his leave. No more needed to be said between him, and the longer he stood willingly out of the rain talking to northern troops, the more suspicious he appeared. He needed to talk to Robert anyway. Better to try and get Arya out of trouble through official channels than through sneaking around, but he would do either if need be.

The Hand of the King glanced around the road once to see if any had noticed his conversation with Jory at all, and stilled momentarily when he saw the beady eyes of Sandor Clegane staring at him from where he’d been sitting unbothered by the storm that only seemed to be getting worse as it fell around him on the ground. His horse was at least protected by the underside of a tree, but neither seemed at all out of place in the situation they found themselves in.

The Hound seemed to contemplate what he’d seen, glancing briefly at Jory who had had the forethought to not immediately set off to do the job when being watched. His gaze switched back to Ned only briefly before he bared his teeth and spat on the ground, before returning to sharpening the sword in his lap with an air of indifference. Ned let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, before shaking his head. The Hound was a problem for another day.

Going back into the common room of the inn, the atmosphere had returned to its natural state of jovial simplicity. There were minstrels that had followed Robert’s party playing their loots, and hedge knights who were drinking together in a corner. The barkeep seemed to be a little more frustrated than would be normal, but Ned couldn’t blame him for that. The procession that followed the king may have been required to pay for food and lodging, but the Royal Party itself was large enough to cause anyone financial troubles. Ned made a mental note to leave the man a back of silver for the troubles before the left. As it was, he only had destination in mind for the time being, and it was a table apart from the others where the King was sitting with one of the local girls and an exasperated Ser Barriston and Lord Renly Baratheon, who looked to be suffering more than a little.

Ned didn’t pay either of them any mind though, marching right up to Robert and waiting for the fat man to realize he wasn’t going to just disappear if he ignored him. The King eyed him warily, but eventually he slapped the girl he’d been holding on the ass and bid her to take her leave.

The two looked at each other in silence before Robert sighed. “Get on with it then,” he demanded, gesturing to the chair across from him. Ned didn’t move to sit.

“Sandor Clegane has returned from the search party,” he stated, and pushed on when Robert didn’t seem inclined to ask for himself what that meant. “He brought the butcher’s boy with him.”

“Aye, an’ how is the lad? Not great company to keep, riding with that dog,” Robert laughed. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he shit himself.” Renly chuckled along with his brother, but it sounded more forced than anything else.

Ned couldn’t stop himself from sneering, but he kept his voice low. “Aye, he likely did,” he spat. “Especially now that he’s more butchered than boy.”

Robert cursed, and Renly’s face flushed green and white in equal measure.

“God’s be good,” the younger brother exclaimed.

The King shot his brother a withering look, before turning back towards Ned. His face set in a frown. “The Cleganes aren’t a lovely bunch, Ned. You know that. It’s unfortunate, but it’s hard enough to hold the Hound’s leash when he’s right bloody here. I can’t very well control him when he’s leagues away.”

Ned gripped the back of the seat he’d been offered. “The Cleganes are dogs, we can agree on that. But they _do_ have a master. The boy was wanted for questioning, and he’s murdered before he even got a chance to say anything!”

Robert’s face flushed with anger, but he hadn’t hit anything yet, so Ned assumed he wasn’t being dismissed. “What are you getting at, Ned?”

“I’m saying,” he said impatiently, “that I’m not sure your dog is as rabid as you claim it to be. My daughter is kept in an empty room for hours, the blood and dirt drying on her without any offer to clean herself, and all the while my men stumble through the dark looking for her like fools. Then, when her story doesn’t match your son’s fantastical recollection of events, you decide to get the account of a girl who is _betrothed_ to the one who she’s being asked to speak up against.”

It was then that Robert slammed his fists on the table as he stood, roaring at everyone to get out with a face purpling with rage. The room went quiet for a beat, before everyone in the hall left. No one wanted to be near the two most powerful, and most angry men in Westeros. Only Renly remained besides the Kingsguard, but Ned wasn’t sure if it was because he was interested by the topic, or if he simply wanted to make sure there were witnesses in case blades were drawn.

“You best be careful, Ned. Gods damn ya if you think I can tolerate you making a farce out of my wife’s reputation!”

Ned scoffed openly. “My thoughts on the Lannisters are no secret, Your Grace. But if you think for a second that your boy was at all telling the truth, you’d be doing more than sitting in a corner of an inn trying to find a lass’ tits to bless! For goodness sakes, Arya is _eleven_! And you think she just decided to try and assassinate a boy who had done her no wrong beyond acting his age?”

Roberts anger was still palpable, but he was glaring at Ned with eyes that screamed more in desperation and frustration than actual anger. “What would you have me do, Ned? I can’t just let her go unpunished. Purposeful or not, she _did_ injure my stupid little welp of an heir. Lord Tywin wouldn’t stand for that sort of insult to go without any consequence.”

“Let her return home, Your Grace. Call off the wedding if you’d like, but let her return home and never again step foot south of the Neck.” Ned tried his best to not make the idea of calling off the wedding sound like the greatest punishment he could ever ask for. “She can swear fealty to both you and Joffrey again before she leaves, shame her if you must, but please, for any love that you still have for me, let me keep my daughter. She’s all I have left of Lyanna.”

The anger slipped off the King’s face at the mention of his sister’s name. He didn’t want to cause his friend that pain, but he was telling the truth of it. It mattered little to either of the two that tears were going unshed in both their eyes. If there was one thing that connected both of them together completely, it was Lyanna Stark.

Robert’s visage had taken on a pale shade while he spoke and a weariness that aged him beyond his years. And when he spoke, his words were full of an emotion Ned had honestly believed had been lost long ago. “Damn you, Ned. Damn you to all the seven hells and to wherever those bloody oaks you call Gods take you too.”

Ned said nothing, only staring at the King, and hoping the brother in all but blood was still truly there.

The King broke first.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Seven Hells, Fine, damn you! Your daughter’s pardoned. But you better make sure that pup understands why wishing to have a sword between her legs is only bound to lead her to trouble!”

Ned was too relieved to even bother being mad at the remark. He just nodded with a gratitude he was sure he’d be paying off for the rest of his life.

Finally, the King seemed to be regaining his spirits, and he sat back with a laugh, slapping Renly on the back and almost knocking over the poor man. Ned wasn’t sure what he had intended to say when he opened his mouth, but he never got the chance when the Inn door burst open violently, and two Lannister guards burst in out of breath and deathly pale.

Robert was on his feet immediately. “What’s this about then?! What’s happened?”

The one in charge stepped forward to address the King, glancing warily towards Ned with cold green eyes for a moment, before they returned to his King with a set line on his mouth. “I’m sorry Your Grace, but it appears there’s been a murder.”

Ned’s blood stilled, and his breath felt like it was sucker punched out of him. _No. Please no, not Arya. Be someone else._

Renly, Robert and Ser Barristan were immediately demanding questions, trying to wring the details out of the guard all at once, and the man was clearly at a loss of who to answer first. Ned was able to cut through it with a single word.

“Arya,” he gasped, and his eyes were wide with fear, with a desperation so wild the guards took a step back unconsciously. The man who had spoken gently shook his head, but his eyes hadn’t lost that same cold gaze they had looked at him with before. “No, My Lord. Not Lady Stark. The one murdered was the one guarding her. Arya Stark is nowhere to be found.”

Ned fell back into the chair.

* * *

 

The party had been riding hard for several hours into the morning, following the trail east as the rain continued to fall by the flagon. Ned Stark was astonished the horse’s trail was still easily visible, but the hoof prints were cut deep into the mud as they traveled farther and farther away from the Inn and closer to the Vale. Keeping to the road and the depth of the prints suggested a person who was only trying to get as far as possible as _fast_ as possible, with little regard to what they’d do when the horse inevitably gave out. In other words, it was what Ned believed to be the plan of a terrified eleven-year-old girl on the run for murder.

They’d discovered the prints soon after they’d discovered the body that had been left sprawled on the floor of the room where Arya had been held. There had been no weapon on the soldier’s person, but there was a ghastly hole in his neck that could have only been done with a blade. Ned had hardly had a chance to inspect the body before the Hound had gruffly told them all that one of the horses had come tearing out of the stable some half an hour prior. He’d assumed it was one of the northerners, and hadn’t bothered to check on their steeds for them.

Ned’s heart was pounding as he looked from Robert, who hadn’t stopped swearing and raving since they’d left the Inn, to the Hound, and to Jory, who had come running up to them soon after the Hound did. He sprinted past them to the stables to check, praying to all the Old Gods that one specific horse was still seething alone in a corner. Something that would make this whole situation look more like a kidnapping than an escape from justice.

The lack of baleful brown eyes glaring at him as he entered felt like a headsman’s axe. He stood there, staring at the stall, the door lightly creaking back and forth as the summer wind pushed it every so often. He swore he heard the axe swinging in tandem.

Now they were pushing hard up the High Road towards the Eyrie, a group of twenty of them, Lannister and Stark alike, no complaints heard among the ranks. Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane were with him, but they kept to themselves, only turning to look at him occasionally as if to check to see if he was still committed to finding his wayward daughter.

Ned felt the mornings discoveries weighing heavily on him, but he knew the situation could not be resolved the same way it had been with just a simple accident. His daughter had taken a life, she was out of his protection. He only hoped he could see her before she was taken from him forever. It was that one hope that kept him from not departing from the Lannister’s company. Fear of what they’d do if they caught her before he did always present in his mind.

These thoughts going around in his head, like a mantra, but Jory’s voice cut through the fog, and the party collectively craned their heads to see what the man had spotted.  
  
It was barely visible, with the rain still pouring down as hard as it was, but Ned could barely make out the silhouette of a horse ahead sprinting like a shadowcat towards the Vale.

The Kingslayer shouted a general rally, and suddenly it was a race against twenty to get to the steed before the others, everyone with the same goal. The chase went on for another league or so, but eventually one of the Lannister soldiers was able to get an arrow into its leg. The beast squealed a shrill song as it fell, and Ned’s heart leapt into his throat at the thought of Arya falling from a horse at that speed.

It came as a shock then, when they gathered around the horse – Husband, and found no rider accompanying it. Only Jory’s pack was on it, tied up to make it look like someone small was on top.

The beast whinnied again, but couldn’t find the strength to stand. One of the Lannisters breathed out a curse about hunting damn wolves, and Jaime was utterly confused. “We tracked this beast down for the better half a day to find it was going in one direction, steadily, without a rider? Tell me Lord Stark, have you been training horses to send letters too?” He gave a suffering look to Ned as he got down from his horse and made his way over to where the steed was still trying to stand. Ned got down just as the Kingslayer made a move to put an end to the racket, but the Hand of the King stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“The beast is exhausting to listen to Stark, it needs to be put down,” he exclaimed, looking at the older man like he was a child.

Ned grit his teeth. “The horse is from the North; It deserves better than a butcher. I’ll do it.”

Jaime sheathed his sword with a shrug. He cared little for the whole ordeal, so long as it was done with.

Ned stared at the man with a familiar contempt for a moment before another frantic bleating came from beside him. The horse still looked like it was trying to make its way east. It didn’t even seem to notice it was no longer able to move, let alone that there were over a dozen people surrounding it.

Quickly as he could, he made his way through the mud to where the horse was stranded on the ground. Its breaths were still coming quickly, but the movements started to die down little by little as it started to accept its situation.

Gently as he could, Ned kneeled by the horse’s neck, trying to sooth it a little by running his hands down it’s neck. The irony was not lost on him that this was the first time he’d been able to touch him.

Husband let out a pitiful whinny, and turned its head to look at the Lord of Winterfell with those intelligent eyes that always looked like they knew what was happening. Ned looked into those large baleful brown eyes as he drew his dagger, muttering a prayer to the Old Gods before thrusting his blade into the beast’s neck.

And for a moment, Ned wondered if he was imagining it when those brown eyes had flashed a dark, valyrian grey before the life drained out of them entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lack of a chapter for so long. I'm sure many of us suffered from a bit of writers block after that....dumpster fire of a finale. But I'll tell you now that mostly? It was just me detesting the idea of writing Ned Stark. What a boring man to put words down for haha.
> 
> Anyway, if you liked it, let me know! If you hated it, let me know why! Always looking to improve!

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Hated it? Have weird opinions? I'd love to hear them! Leave a comment, I'll be happy to respond to it.


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